


Uniform

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Soul Eater, Soul Eater Not!
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Boys in Skirts, Crossdressing Kink, Established Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Mirror Sex, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Teasing, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-19 09:50:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8200690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Clay thinks this might be the first time he’s regretting something before he’s even properly done it." Clay tries something new and Akane catches him at it. It turns out better than expected.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shiny_Pichu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_Pichu/gifts).



Clay thinks this might be the first time he’s regretting something before he’s even properly done it.

He’s used to making bad decisions. He’s good at strategy and rationality if he has enough time to think through his options; but there are all too many situations in his life when time is too much of the essence to allow him the necessary delay to really work through all the possible results of an action, and it seems he is forever doomed to choose the worst of those when he is under pressure. Usually he can rely on Akane to make the right call in those scenarios -- there’s a reason Clay’s the weapon and not the meister, after all -- but Akane isn’t always available, and not always a trustworthy source, especially when it comes to undertakings like the one Clay is currently involved in. Anything that involves the other’s favorite indulgences -- candy, cake, sugar of any and all varieties -- is immediately a source of irrationality, and years of partnership in both a technical and romantic sense have taught Clay that many of his own actions rate just as highly as things-Akane-is-unreasonable-about. It’s so pronounced that Clay finds his own logical process undermined just by the thought of Akane’s preferences, until he’ll step outside their grocery budget to buy a speciality cake for no reason at all or find himself considering the various merits of different types of desserts when he himself has almost no sweet tooth to speak of. It’s been mostly limited to minor inconveniences of budgeting so far; but Clay’s staring at himself in the mirror now, and everything about his reflection seems to indicate the symptoms to be spreading well beyond the realm of manageable.

The skirt looks a _lot_ shorter than it seemed originally. On the hanger it had seemed comfortable inches long, had looked like a wholly reasonable length for a school uniform; but now that Clay’s actually wearing it he can see well above his knees, even with the waistband pulled down as low as it will go on his hips, and he feels uncomfortably certain that moving or bending at all will reveal far more than he was anticipating baring. There’s no space to wear any of the boxers he owns underneath it, and he didn’t think far enough ahead or resign himself thoroughly enough to this plan to think to shop for anything more, well, _fitting_ ; all that’s left for him to do is stand in front of the mirror frowning intensely at the blue plaid of the skirt and hope that he’ll manifest previously-unheard-of powers of clothing manipulation. The shirt’s a little better, even if the short cap sleeves cling to his shoulders and the bow at the front still looks a little lopsided; Clay fiddled with the shirt for almost fifteen minutes before he shed his pants and pulled on the skirt, and since then all his attention has been devoted to the hem brushing against the middle of his thighs and his attempts to urge it lower. He reaches for it again, curling his fingers around the fabric and tugging while his mouth curves down into the weight of an unconscious frown; and there’s the sound of a door opening, and Akane’s voice calling “I’m home” from the entryway, and Clay’s hands tighten into sudden fists that shorten the skirt by inches under the weight of his touch.

“Oh no,” he breathes, his voice whisper-soft in the echoing space of the bathroom, and as if on cue: “Clay?” a little closer than the first call as Akane makes his way down the hallway. “Are you here?”

“Yeah,” Clay says, aiming for casual and hitting shrill panic instead. “I’ll be right out.” His heart is pounding hard against his ribcage, his cheeks are burning even without any audience but himself; the heap of his more typical school uniform offers temptation from the floor of the bathroom, suggests the possibility of changing back and leaving the implications of this particular goal for another day. Clay hesitates, caught between self-consciousness and an unwillingness to back down from his plan, and then there’s Akane’s voice, louder at the door: “Are you okay?” as a touch rattles the metal of the handle against the latch. Clay turns away from the mirror, opens his mouth to say something completely incoherent; and the latch clicks open, the handle turns, and Clay realizes that he forgot to lock the door just as Akane pushes it open to see him standing in the middle of the bathroom in one of the DWMA girl’s school uniforms.

There’s complete silence in the space for a moment. Clay can see Akane’s gaze flicker down over him, taking in the wide bow at his collar, and the line of the skirt at his thighs, and the whole length of his legs left bare by the fabric. It’s to Akane’s credit that he doesn’t laugh outright, that he in fact barely reacts at all; the most Clay sees on his face is the lifting of an eyebrow in a tiny tell of surprise or amusement, Clay’s too busy trying to die of embarrassment to determine which.

“Uh,” Clay says in a stunning display of coherency. “Listen. I can explain.”

Akane lifts a hand to forestall Clay’s words. Clay’s a little bit grateful, as he’s really not at all sure he _can_ explain. “No need,” he says. “It’s not that hard to figure it out.” He lifts his gaze again to look at Clay over the top of his glasses. The corner of his mouth twitches. “I’m just impressed you kept it a secret so long. I had no idea you were into cross-dressing, Clay.”

“Oh my god,” Clay says, and he has to shut his eyes then, he can’t stand to keep watching Akane’s mouth tensing on laughter while his whole face is trying to achieve the darkest blush ever recorded. “It’s not. I’m not.”

“It really is fine,” Akane says. There’s the creak of the door, a scuff of movement as the other comes forward; when Akane reaches out it’s to brush his fingers against the loose edge of Clay’s shirt, where the fabric is falling soft against the waist of the skirt. “I like it.”

“I know,” Clay blurts, and opens his eyes to meet Akane’s barely-repressed laughter in spite of the burn all across his cheeks. “I know, that’s why I--” He lifts a hand, gestures vaguely in the direction of his discarded clothes before sweeping his hand towards the reflection of himself he can’t manage to turn to look at. “For you.”

Akane’s attention flickers, trailing the motion of Clay’s hand to the mirror, skimming the other’s image in the glass before he looks back to Clay’s face. His smile is easing, still holding his lips into a curve but with the tension of amusement giving way to softness. “For me?”

“Yeah.” Clay shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath; and then starts speaking, quickly, offering the words to the minimal comfort the darkness an absence of vision grants him. “You always joke about it whenever the new students start and the girls pick their uniforms, and I know you’re _always_ teasing me but you do it every year and I thought maybe you actually wanted to…try it.” Clay risks opening his eyes. Akane’s still watching him, but all his attention is fixed on Clay’s expression, now, without so much as a glance at the skirt skimming the other’s thighs, and his smile has all but faded entirely. There’s just the catch of tension at the corner of his mouth, the expression more bemused than teasing, and some of the self-consciousness in Clay’s chest eases, at least enough for him to manage a deep breath before he goes on speaking. “So I got a uniform in my size and.” Clay lifts a hand to gesture needlessly at the crisp shirt, the soft bow, the nerve-wrackingly short skirt. “I was planning to surprise you.”

Akane’s laugh is short and bright. “You did,” he says, and then, amusement fading again to that softness in his gaze: “You know, you’re really smart sometimes.”

Clay’s blush comes back in full force as if it had never left. “ _What_ ,” he blurts, taking a half-step back like he can physically retreat from this absurdity. “Me? No, I’m--”

“You are,” Akane says, speaking over any protest Clay might be able to manage, and then he takes a step closer and reaches out to replace his fingertips against Clay’s shirt. His hands catch against the other’s hips, his fingers tighten to brace Clay in place, and then he’s leaning in to punctuate his claim with the press of his lips and Clay loses all his focus entirely. It’s always hard to keep track of his thoughts when Akane’s kissing him even casually, and this is no kind of casual; this is focused, deliberate, slow and careful and _thorough,_ until by the time Akane pulls away Clay has a hand tangled into dark hair and one clutching a handful of the other’s shirt, and he’s forgotten all about the clothes he has on.

Akane doesn’t let that state of affairs last long.

“You picked this out yourself?” he asks, his hold at Clay’s hips loosening enough for his hands to slide down over the fabric of the skirt and press it flush against the other’s skin. “Or did you ask for someone else’s input?”

“Oh,” Clay gasps, his cheeks flaring hot again at this sudden reminder of what he’s wearing, of how _little_ he’s wearing. His fingers tighten against Akane’s shirt and tug involuntarily. “N-no. I picked it out on my own.”

“Mm,” Akane hums. He tips his head down, making a show of the movement as he looks down at Clay’s clothes. His fingers slide over the pleats of the skirt. “Good choice.”

“Do you like it?” Clay asks, even though everything in Akane’s tone and expression says that yes, he likes it very much. “I know you like blue so I thought…”

“Yeah,” Akane says without looking up. “I do like blue. It looks good on you.” His fingers splay wide against the fabric; his pinkies catch and slide just under the hem of the skirt. “It looks _really_ good on you.”

“Oh,” Clay says, a little bit breathlessly, as Akane’s touch drags over his skin and urges the hem of the skirt up by a half-inch on his thighs. “Akane, I’m not--”

“How much are you wearing under this?” Akane asks as his fingers slide higher, as he collects the fabric of the skirt against his hold to pull it even farther up Clay’s legs than it already is. “There can’t be much space for anything else.”

“There’s not,” Clay admits. His legs are starting to tremble with adrenaline to match the self-consciousness burning across his cheeks, but embarrassment isn’t enough to stop the flush of heat shimmering through him at Akane’s touch that’s urging him towards telltale resistance at the front of the skirt. He’s looking down too, his attention inextricably tangled with Akane’s focus; he can see the fabric slipping higher, can see the way the hem catches against his rising arousal and stalls in its upward motion. “I’m...I’m not…”

“Yeah?” Akane purrs, as if this is a coherent response of any kind. His fingers dip under the hitched-up hem of the skirt, his touch slides high across the bare skin of Clay’s hips, but he doesn’t tug the fabric free of Clay’s now-obvious erection; he just looks up without raising his chin, gazing at Clay from under the shadow of his hair and with his mouth quirking onto that smile again. “Good.” And he’s moving, taking a half-step back to give himself enough space to drop to a knee in front of Clay without drawing his hands away from the other’s clothes. Clay’s legs tense, his breathing hisses into a whimper of overheated self-consciousness, but Akane’s hands are holding him back against the edge of the counter and he’s honestly not completely sure he can stand on his own without the support. He braces his hands against the surface, flexing his fingers helplessly against the counter as Akane catches his thumbs under the edge of the skirt with taunting slowness; and then Akane pushes the hem up, and Clay whimpers an agonized note of self-consciousness as the fabric bares him to view.

“Ah,” Akane breathes. He rocks back, shifting his weight so both knees are pressed against the bathroom floor and he’s at eye-level with Clay’s hips; Clay is absolutely sure he’s a few seconds out from spontaneous combustion, but thankfully Akane isn’t looking up to add the embarrassment of his gaze to everything else in Clay’s head. Unfortunately that means instead he’s looking at-- “You look _delicious_.”

“Oh god,” Clay whimpers, and lets his balance depend on one hand while he lifts the other to press to his face. “ _Akane_.”

“I _really_ like this,” Akane says, the words gusting warm across Clay’s skin. “Have you thought about wearing this all the time?”

“No,” Clay says to the inside of his wrist. “You’d just-- _ah_ ,” as Akane’s lips press against the top of his thigh, right where his leg meets his hip. “You’d do this at _school_.”

“Mm,” Akane hums without a trace of regret in his throat. “Yeah, I would.” He kisses against Clay’s thigh, trailing a path sideways over the other’s skin, and Clay has to let his second hand come back to the lip of the counter to brace himself against what he knows is coming. “Maybe in the middle of class” and then Akane’s mouth is ghosting over Clay’s cock, his lips parting to catch warm and wet just at the head, and Clay is whimpering incoherent response to the friction of Akane’s mouth sliding down around him. Akane’s slow about it, like he’s savouring the forward movement or the taste of Clay against his tongue, but Clay still can’t find his balance, even by the time Akane is drawing back to slide back forward again. His embarrassment is vanishing with every drag of Akane’s mouth; it’s hard to remember why he feels self-conscious when his whole body is thrumming itself into heat against the press of Akane’s lips and tongue. When he opens his eyes to look down Akane’s not watching him at all; he has his eyes shut behind the weight of his glasses, his lashes settling dark over his cheeks and his whole expression as completely relaxed as if his entire purpose in life is to be here on his knees in front of Clay. The thought makes Clay’s spine prickle with adrenaline and catches his breath in the back of his throat; but this isn’t what he had planned, even if Akane’s finding a rhythm that is more than persuasive enough to keep them here, and he has to speak before he forgets how to string words together into even his usual vague attempts at coherency.

“Wait,” he says, and frees one hand from the support of the counter to reach for Akane’s hair and press his fingers into the soft dark of it. “Wait, hang on, I--we should--”

Akane hums, the sound low and purring against the back of his throat, and pulls away while Clay is still shuddering with the heat of the vibration running out through his blood. “You’re right,” he says, turning his head up to return his attention to Clay’s face. His eyes are half-lidded in that way they always get in situations like this and all too often in far more mundane settings; Clay’s chest tightens under the force of Akane’s attention, his breathing rushes out of him as his fingers flex against the weight of the other’s hair. Akane’s mouth curves on a smile, the damp of his mouth catches a shine from the light. “Hand me the bottle.”

Clay blinks. “What?” He turns his head to look behind him, trying to find some traction for what Akane is referring to. “What bottle?”

“Other side,” Akane says. When Clay looks back Akane’s ducked his head and is leaning back in; Clay loses his focus for a moment of shuddering heat before he shakes himself back into some measure of clarity and looks to the other side. There’s a handful of bottles scattered across the countertop, with no way to tell which one Akane meant; Clay is opening his mouth to ask for clarification when his gaze lands on the slick curve of the object in question, and his uncertainty evaporates at once.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, and stretches out immediately. Akane purrs something just shy of a laugh against his skin, sending the sound thrumming up the whole of Clay’s spine, but he’s already closing his fingers around the bottle of lube and even the heat of Akane’s voice isn’t enough to distract him. Clay straightens again to resume his lean over the counter, and Akane pulls away, and Clay is offering the bottle as fast as Akane can reach for it.

“Thanks.” Akane lets his hold against Clay’s skirt go to free both his hands; the cloth tumbles down to offer some minimal cover again, or at least as much as can be achieved with Clay still radiantly hard against the inside of the fabric. The cloth is catching against him and draping in a way that Clay thinks might be more obscene than the alternative; but he doesn’t have the attention to spare to try to remedy the situation, because Akane is twisting the bottle open and upending it to spill the wet shine of liquid across his upturned palm, and that’s always enough to hold Clay’s attention.

“Oh,” he says aloud. His fingers tighten against the edge of the counter; his hips rock forward in a tiny, reflexive motion. “Akane.”

“I _have_ thought about this before,” Akane says, sounding remarkably calm as he recaps the bottle and sets it aside. When he reaches out it’s to catch his fingers against the inside of Clay’s knee and press his way up along the inner line of the other’s thigh. “You in a skirt, I mean.” His palm urges Clay’s legs wider, pushes the other’s stance open, and he’s reaching up with his other hand to dip slick fingers between the angle of Clay’s open legs. There’s a shift of Akane’s sleeve against Clay’s thighs, the drag of friction as he reaches back; and then warm pressure, the slick slide of Akane’s fingertips against Clay’s entrance with all the casual weight of certainty behind them. Clay tenses for a moment, his body shuddering with the first rush of adrenaline, and Akane hums as he feels his way against the other’s body.

“The thing about skirts,” he says, and his finger presses to urge Clay open for his touch. Clay whimpers at the stretch, at the first drag of friction sparking up his spine like the electricity of Soul Resonance carried on Akane’s fingertips to crackle over his skin instead of over the metal of his weapon form. Akane hums a low note of satisfaction in the back of his throat and tightens his fingers at Clay’s thigh before sliding in deeper. “The thing about skirts is how easy-access they are.”

“Ah,” Clay manages, a tiny sound of complete meaninglessness as Akane presses farther into him. “Yeah.”

“Yeah.” Akane’s hand urges Clay’s leg fractionally farther apart, his finger pushes deeper by another half-inch. Clay can feel the pressure of anticipation building low in his stomach, as if the ache and stretch of Akane inside him is just pooling to a spill of heated expectation in his veins as the other’s touch pushes deeper. “If you were wearing a skirt like this I could have my fingers inside you in the middle of class with no one the wiser.”

“I don’t--” Clay starts, and then Akane thrusts in farther to push his touch deep inside Clay’s body, and Clay’s back arches with the first jolting rush of heat that lances through him. It makes his legs tremble, makes his cock jump, and from in front of him Akane hums satisfaction and draws back for another thrust. “I don’t think it’d be very subtle, Akane.”

“No,” Akane hums. “Not with you like this.” He lets his touch at Clay’s thigh go and lifts his hand to the clinging weight of the skirt instead; Clay’s hips jolt forward reflexively to grind against Akane’s palm, to press his cock flush to the weight of the other’s touch. Akane smiles, the corner of his mouth turning up on amusement before he catches his thumb under the hem of the skirt to urge it up again. “It’s so much _faster_ ,” he purrs, and then he’s opening his mouth again, catching Clay’s length at his tongue at the same time he thrusts in harder with his touch, and Clay has to stop talking completely for the rush of sensation that sparks through him. Akane’s touch is certain, his aim unerring; but his mouth is just as much of a distraction all on its own, between the drag of his tongue and the press of his lips. He’s humming, Clay thinks, spilling sound far in the back of his throat, and Clay feels it like electricity sparking through all his veins. It’s all he can do to keep to his feet, to brace himself against the edge of the counter and lean hard on the support, and it might be easier if he tipped his head back and shut his eyes but he can’t look away, not when Akane is watching him with that fixed, bright gaze he always gives Clay when they’re like this. His eyes look bluer than they ever do at any other time, his lips soft like he’s trying to smile in spite of the heat of Clay’s cock pressing his mouth open, and then he draws his hand back and starts to urge a second finger alongside the first and Clay loses track of everything else entirely. His hand comes out to catch at Akane’s hair, his fingers curl into a desperate hold against the dark, and Akane’s hum is going to nearly a laugh, Clay can feel the sound of it spilling hot into his veins and running up his spine. Akane’s fingers are steady, working into him with a smooth rhythm that flares starburst sensation into him with every forward stroke, and his mouth is...is heat, is warm wet and the drag of slick pressure until Clay wants nothing so much as to arc his hips forward off the support of the counter and buck as far into the other’s mouth as he can go. But Akane’s still stretching him open, and Clay’s hold at Akane’s hair is more for his own stability than for Akane’s, and the heat rising in his veins is building slow on itself, folding over and over with every motion Akane takes to go darker, hotter, to tremble deeper into Clay’s body like it’s fitting itself against all the gaps in his self. It feels good, feels _thorough_ , like Akane has truly found some way to press them as close as they are in Resonance while Clay remains untransformed, until when Akane finally pulls away Clay feels as heavy all through his body as if they really have been in the middle of a fight.

“Akane,” he says, his fingers easing on the other’s hair and sliding down with idle appreciation for the soft of the strands while Akane braces a hand at his hip and slides his fingers back and out of Clay. “I love you.”

Akane’s smile pulls wide, his breath rushes out of him in a huff of amusement. “We’ve barely started,” he says, getting to his feet with the same easy grace with which he dropped to his knees. “Shouldn’t you play it cool at least until I’m fucking you?”

Clay’s cheeks heat into a flush. “Shut up.”

Akane laughs. “There we go,” he says, amusement warm over the words. “That’s the Clay I know.” But he’s smiling all over his face, his whole expression warm and radiant with affection, and when he lifts a hand to catch the back of Clay’s neck Clay’s shutting his eyes well before Akane’s lips brush his and settle into the weight of a slow kiss. Akane’s deliberate about this as much as everything else; by the time he pulls back Clay has a hand against the other’s shoulder just for the extra point to ground himself out, as if that’s likely to do him any good with Akane in front of him.

“I love you too,” Akane tells him, punctuating with another quick press of his mouth to Clay’s. “Turn around.”

Clay nods first. It’s easier to agree than it is to ease his hold on Akane’s shoulder so he can brace himself at the counter and shift his feet; it takes him a few seconds of unsteady footing, and Akane lets him go as he starts to turn, stepping back to leave a gap between them so the other can move. Clay can hear the sound of metal clicking on itself, the soft drag of leather over cloth, and it’s no surprise, really, that Akane is unfastening his slacks, but it still burns self-conscious heat through him, still makes his knees shudder with the force of the anticipation that runs through him. There’s the mirror in front of him, his reflection shifting with every motion he takes, but when Clay lifts his gaze it’s Akane he sees, with his school uniform still on and his head tipped down so he can focus on getting his pants open. It’s strange to see him so focused, with even the delighted smirk Clay has become so accustomed to seeing absent in favor of the soft relaxation of attention, and for a moment Clay just stares, watching the way Akane’s hair falls to curtain half his face and the way his lashes dip as he watches the movement of his hands. Akane’s shoulder shifts, the movement of his hands telegraphed all the way up to the line of his coat, and he huffs an exhale of relief as he gets his pants open; and then he lifts his head, and his gaze meets Clay’s in the mirror before Clay can think to blink or turn away. Akane’s mouth tightens at the corner, his eyes sparkling brighter to match the curve of his sudden smile.

“You’re looking at the wrong thing,” he informs Clay without breaking eye contact. He takes a step forward, his foot sliding into the gap between Clay’s, and Clay shudders electric heat and takes a half-step out to brace his stance a little wider. Akane’s gaze drops from his reflection, drags down over Clay’s shoulders with deliberate slowness, and Clay is shaking from the weight of that attention even before Akane’s fingers touch at his thigh to slide up and under the skirt again. “You’re the real star of the show today, just see how good you look.”

Clay can feel his face burn red with self-consciousness, can see the color rising in his reflection in spite of his best attempts to avoid looking directly at himself in the mirror. “Akane--” he starts, ready to offer protest to this gratuitous teasing, but then Akane’s hand pushes up to invert the skirt over his hips and leave him bare for the other’s gaze, and his words die into an involuntary whimper of heat as his head drops down and his gaze falls to the counter in front of him instead.

“You do look good,” Akane tells him, and there’s a hand at Clay’s hip, gentle fingers sliding to press against his skin and brace him in place, and Clay’s heart is pounding with anticipation and he can’t catch his breath for the strain he can feel all across his chest. “Blue is definitely your color, Clay.”

“Shut up,” Clay says to the counter, his protest weak and shaky with the heat in his throat, and then there’s pressure against him, the slick drag of Akane fitting himself against Clay’s entrance, and Clay has to shut his eyes and give up on speech so he can breathe through the rush of adrenaline that hits him.

“Am I not allowed to compliment my boyfriend?” Akane asks. There’s a catch of friction, a moment of strain; and then Clay shudders an exhale, and Akane huffs satisfaction, and Akane’s cock slides forward to stretch Clay open. Clay’s fingers tense against the counter, reaching for support he doesn’t find, but Akane’s hold at his hip is gentle, and as the other leans over him to thrust deeper his other hand matches the first to brace Clay steady against his forward movement. “Especially when you got all dressed up for me.”

“God,” Clay gasps to the counter. “Do you just like embarrassing me or something?”

Akane laughs. “A little,” he admits. His fingers tighten at Clay’s hips to hold the other steady as he draws back in a slow slide of friction; it makes Clay huff an exhale and sparks a shudder of reaction all down his spine. “You really do look good, though.” He takes another thrust; it’s harder this time, enough to rock Clay forward against the edge of the counter. Clay’s cock catches against the surface, dragging through a surge of friction, and he’s groaning even as Akane draws back for another movement. “I meant it, you should wear this all the time.”

“I shouldn’t.” Clay leans farther forward over the counter, dropping to the support of an elbow so he can free a hand to reach down for himself; behind him Akane is finding a rhythm, falling into a steady-slow pace that unwinds heat higher up Clay’s spine with each of the other’s movements, and the ache low in his stomach is putting up a demand for more. “You’d just…” His fingers tighten around himself, his wrist twists to stroke up against his length, and he shudders with the first surge of relief that hits him. “...want to do this to me all the time.”

Akane hums. “I already want to do this with you all the time.”

Clay snorts a laugh. “I know. That’s why I can’t wear this kind of thing at school.”

“Are you saying your slacks are a chastity belt?” Akane wants to know. “Because I think if I tried…”

“ _No_ ,” Clay says. “No, _don’t_ try.” Akane’s hips come forward and Clay’s vision sparks to white for a moment; his cock jumps against the grip of his hand, his fingers tighten involuntarily. “ _Ah_. At--at least at school.”

“Mm, but home is okay?” Akane draws back, takes a long thrust forward as he presses in close against Clay; when he shifts his hips to grind deeper Clay groans, his hand jerking hard over himself in helpless response. “That’s okay, I guess.” His hand eases from Clay’s hip, his fingers slide down over the other’s skin; when his hold tightens again it’s at the back of Clay’s thigh, just over the dip of his braced-out knee. “Your legs look _amazing_ like this.”

“ _God_ ,” Clay whimpers, his cheeks burning to heat even as his cock jerks in reflexive response to the purr on Akane’s voice.

“Yeah.” Akane hums consideringly. “You should wear heels next time, too.”

“ _Next time_ ,” Clay gasps, intending protest, but Akane thrusts hard into him and the words come out more like a promise than anything else. His head dips, his hand jerks, and Akane’s fingers tighten at his hip, the weight of the other’s hold enough to urge Clay backwards to meet Akane’s forward motion.

“Yes,” Akane says, and his voice is a purr, is shivering low in his throat until Clay can feel it like a touch running all down the length of his spine. “Next time. Maybe I’ll take you into the bedroom instead so I can lay you out across the bed and really _look_ at you.”

“You can look at me now,” Clay says, but it’s not really protest, and when Akane’s hips snap forward his voice gives way to another groan of heat too reflexive to hold back. “ _Akane_.”

“I want to again,” Akane tells him, and then, as his movement speeds and his voice drops to the low range of sincerity: “I want to all the time, Clay, you’re always so beautiful.”

Clay huffs a faint laugh far in the back of his throat, feels the heat in his cheeks warming all over again even as his mouth pulls into an involuntary smile. “I’m not, I--” and Akane moves behind him and Clay’s thoughts disintegrate in on themselves, stealing his coherency as thoroughly as his voice. For a moment he can’t find air in his lungs, can’t do anything but gasp open-mouthed at the counter under him, and when he does find voice again it’s desperate, struggling even to give coherency to the straightforward honesty in his head. “ _You’re_ the attractive one, Akane, you always--you always look so _good_ and I just--”

“You’re perfect,” Akane says, the words coming with enough force to stop whatever incoherent protest Clay might have found where it stands. “You’re always perfect for me, Clay.” Akane tips closer, his weight coming forward to press against Clay’s spine, against the soft of the unfamiliar uniform shirt, and when he takes a breath Clay can feel it wind warm against the back of his neck. “Clay, you’re so _perfect_.”

“God,” Clay says, his voice breaking over the word, and his hand is moving faster than he can think, now, he doesn’t have to spare any focus at all for the instinctive rush of movement. Akane’s hair is falling against his collar, he can feel the weight of the other’s forehead pressing to the back of his head, and all his skin is going hot under the weight of his clothes and of Akane’s touch, burning itself to heat like it’s trying to turn to flame itself. “Akane. I--you--”

“Clay,” Akane says, a reply all in itself for the way his voice skids to a precipice of tension in his throat. “I love you too” and Clay gasps, and tenses, and comes in a sudden burst of heat across the grip of his fingers and the edge of the counter. His vision goes to white, his hips jolt forward against his hand, and behind him Akane is groaning something low and satisfied but Clay can’t hear what words the other might be offering, not when his entire body is shuddering itself into the all-over electricity of satisfaction. He’s panting for air, even the sound of his breathing caught and tangled around the tremors of tension rippling through his body, and Akane’s hand is still steady at his hip, his hold as sure as it is when Clay is in weapon form and supported solely by the press of the other’s fingers. The thought makes Clay feel dizzy, like his sense of his self is shifting even as he gasps for breath, and then Akane drags “ _Clay_ ” against the back of his neck and Clay comes back to himself in a rush, the whole of his surroundings snapping back into place in the span of a single rushed inhale. He’s in himself, in his human body, his whole self still trembling with aftershocks of heat as Akane keeps moving into him; and then Akane’s shoulders tense, Akane chokes a sharp, broken-off sound, and Clay’s breathing rushes out of him in a gust of appreciation as Akane’s steady rhythm gives way to the stuttering jolts of orgasm against him. Akane’s gasping, his whole body shaking against Clay under him as his composure is overtaken by pleasure, and Clay shuts his eyes, and takes a breath, and says “I love you, Akane” while the other’s breathing is still breaking to skidding heights at the back of his neck. It makes Akane huff amusement, fitting the sound around the shivers of pleasure running through him, and Clay smiles and lets his head fall forward to weight heavy against the support of the counter under him.

Akane stays where he is for a minute, long after the last tremors of heat have eased to leave them both languid with satisfaction against the support of the counter. His nose is pressed against the back of Clay’s neck, his lips skimming the line of the other’s collar; at his leg Clay can feel the drag of Akane’s touch gone idle with warmth loosening to trace across the edge of his hipbone and wander down the path it creates. The movement carries a prickle of electric friction with it, until Clay jerks and huffs a laugh at the unexpected press of Akane’s fingers against a particularly sensitive point.

“Ticklish?” Akane asks at the back of his neck without lifting his head from weighting Clay’s shoulders.

“Yeah, when you’re tickling me.” Akane’s fingers shift wider, drag through a tiny arc of motion, and Clay gasps and reaches back to grab at the other’s wrist and still the shiver of movement against his skin. Akane purrs a laugh, his voice dropping into the low resonance it always takes on when he’s particularly satisfied, and his hand in Clay’s hold twists, his palm turning up as he shifts his hand to interlace their fingers. Clay turns his head from where he has it pressed to the counter to look down to their fit of their hands together, and Akane shifts behind him to press a kiss against the nape of his neck, just over the collar of his uniform shirt.

“I like the skirt,” he says against Clay’s hair. “A _lot_.”

Clay huffs a laugh and tightens his fingers gently around Akane’s. “Yeah,” he says. “I thought you might.”

Even he can pick up on something _that_ obvious.


End file.
